


Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of (His and Mine Are The Same)

by QueenHarleyQuinn



Category: Once Upon A Time In Hollywood (2019)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Oblivious, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Slurs, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, no beta we die like men, tarantino typical language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 20:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenHarleyQuinn/pseuds/QueenHarleyQuinn
Summary: "Guess I’m your man" has been printed on Rick’s body from the day he was born and everyone has been trying to get rid of it ever since.Cliff is just shy of his seventh birthday when his mark shows up on his right hip. "Nah, you’re too pretty to be a stunt double."--(Soulmate AU where the first words your soulmate says to you are printed on your body. Set pre-movie, Bounty Law era)





	Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of (His and Mine Are The Same)

**Author's Note:**

> “He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”  
\- Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

_ Guess I’m your man _ , has been printed on Rick’s body from the day he was born and everyone has been trying to get rid of it ever since.

His parents don’t  _ usually _ talk about how Rick’s father had to pay all kinds of money to keep Rick’s mark off of his birth certificate. They don’t talk about how they jumped from town to town in Missouri just to keep the swarming gossip from eating them alive. Well, actually, that’s a lie; they  _ do _ talk about it when Rick fucks up or talks back or does anything to insinuate that he isn’t the perfect, all American boy that both his parents expect him to be.

He learns what a homosexual is at a very young age and decides, after feeling the lash of his father’s belt, that he will never be that. Rick’s mother can’t look him in the eye when they say grace before dinner and he knows it’s because she’s silently praying for things to be different. For him to be different.

Rick prays for that too.

When he’s sixteen Rick’s father drags him into the truck and drives several hours in eerie quiet. All Rick can think of is the story of Issac and Abraham and his father’s hunting rifle that may or may not be lying in the back.

Rick’s palms sting from digging his nails into them too hard. He begs and begs for the mark on his chest to be different. He thinks of the people who never get a soulmark and wishes, not for the first time, that he was one of them. He’s too busy asking God not to let this happen that by the time the truck stops Rick’s father has to slap the side of his face to get his attention.

Well, he doesn’t  _ have  _ to but he does it anyway.

“M’sorry,” Rick mumbles, red cheeked, “Pl-please don’t-”

Rick’s father sneers, “Shut up and get inside, boy,” as he points a finger to a shabby looking building in a city that Rick’s never seen.

It’s a tattoo parlor, it turns out, and it costs a lot of money to keep everyone quiet there, too. The man with the tattoo machine glares at Rick while he works on him and is anything but gentle with the needle.

Rick bleeds a lot and he cries a lot and his father eventually steps outside just to get away from the pathetic sight of him. By the time it’s over Rick is a shaking mess, like the last leaf of autumn clinging to the tree. 

There’s no design, no new words or imagery - just an angry, black bar covering the four words that are ruining his life.

Cliff is just shy of his seventh birthday when his mark shows up on his right hip. It’s a hot, humid summer day for which the only remedy is to jump into the nearest pond or river with his cousins. If it happens between the first or second dive into the water, no one really notices or cares. They’re just kids trying to cool down before heading back to the farm.

“Shit, Cliff, we never thought you’d get one,” His cousin Aldo says, jabbing him in the side, just above his underwear line, as they all grab their clothes from where they’d stashed them on a nearby log.

Cliff looks down, confused until he sees the words stamped onto his hip.

_ Nah, you’re too pretty to be a stunt double. _

His face heats up as he scrambles to put on his pants. It’s too late though, all the cousins have seen it and everyone has a good laugh at the fact that some girl is going to call him pretty.

None of them know what the hell a stunt double is.

By the time Rick’s twenties come around he’s left his family far behind him and he’s learned to love every girl he meets on set of whatever show he’s doing - just minor roles, nothing big or reoccuring yet, but it’s all new and exciting and he thinks Hollywood itself might be his soulmate.

He learns to love Shelly in hair and makeup. Learns to love Laura who plays the suspicious widow on this cop show no one watches. Learns to love Betty who types up the new scripts and passes them out like party favors.

He can do this. He can like women. Their long lashes and curled hair and red lips. A lot of them are nice girls but whenever he gets a peak at their soulmarks - on the inside of their wrists or below their ears - there’s this hollow feeling in his chest. So Rick learns to date the girls without soulmarks. And if they ever see the black bar on his chest...well, they don’t ask about it.

And on the nights where he’s all alone Rick learns to drink until he can’t remember those four words anymore.

Cliff gets a lot of shit heaped on him when he’s in basic training. They call him  _ pretty boy _ and  _ stuntman _ as they shove him to the ground and demand fifty pushups out of him. Half the guys here don’t have soulmarks and figured they’d join up because  _ what else is there to do  _ and  _ it’s not like there’s some gal waiting for them back home _ .

The other half do have soulmarks and spend their time passing around jerkoff mags, acting like their other half might be the centerfold.

Cliff doesn’t really fit with either crowd so he’s almost happy by the time they graduate and are shipped off to Europe.

And he’s a little ashamed to admit it but that almost happy feeling sticks around despite each and every kill. The guys in his unit don’t call him  _ pretty boy _ anymore, probably because more often than not he has nazi blood in his hair and German screams ringing in his ears. Nothing pretty about that.

When the war ends Cliff figures he might as well listen to that mark on his hip and give the stuntman gig a shot.

“Rick Dalton meet Cliff Booth, your stunt double,” The director introduces, gesturing to the rugged looking man standing before Rick. He’s tall and dirty blonde with a jaw that’s too defined for just stunt work.

Cliff offers him a hand, “Guess I’m your man.”

And Rick can’t say anything because his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he stares at Cliff, taking in all of him again. He’s had a few false alarms over the years because, apparently, this isn’t such a totally uncommon phrase when you’re being partnered up with someone. But there’s something about Cliff that sends a shiver down Rick’s spine and that’s how he knows it’s real this time.

Cliff’s eyebrows shoot up because his hand is still out there, waiting to be shook.

“N-nah,” Rick stutters and tries to laugh because if he doesn’t expel this nervousness he  _ will _ explode, “You’re too pretty to be a stunt double.”

God, it rings stupid and earnest and  _ fuckin’ queer _ in his own ears. He shakes Cliff’s hand, quick, before folding his arms in an attempt at not making anymore dumb choices. If the words mean anything to Cliff, though, he doesn’t show it.

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me,” He chuckles, good natured and easily defusing any and all weird energy that Rick injected into the conversation. “Don’t worry though, I’m sure I’ll have a few scrapes and bruises before the week is out.”

When Cliff winks Rick feels the phantom sting of his dad’s belt.

_ “Never seen you around before, what brings you to Hollywood?” The bartender asks, slinging a beer Cliff’s way. No doubt he’s waiting for the pathetic answer  _ _ I want to be famous. _ _ Cliff won’t give him the satisfaction. _

_ “Stunt work, mostly,” Cliff says, even though he hasn’t been hired by anyone to do much of anything yet. He’s been living out of a shitty motel, hoping to stumble into a real job. _

_ “Nah, you’re too pretty to be a stuntman,” says a light, smokey voice next to him. The kind of voice that belongs to someone who  _ _ used _ _ to want to be a singer. _

_ He turns to the woman next to him. She’s drinking a gin and tonic in a dive bar at twelve in the afternoon. She’s good looking, in a rough around the edges sort of way, “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it.” _

_ She huffs a laugh as she stands. She props a leg up onto her stool like she’s posing for the Captain Morgan Bottle, as she points to her calf. _

_ I’ll be damned _ _ , Cliff thinks. Right there on her smooth leg is  _ _ Yeah, well, someone’s gotta do it _ .

_ There’s no fireworks, no real excitement to be seen on either of their faces. Cliff untucks his shirt on the right side and peels it up to show the barest bit of black ink before his beltline. She nods as she reads it. _

_ They clink drinks wordlessly. Neither of them really know what to do next. _

_ A few months later they end up married. _

Nobody had ever warned Rick that having a stuntman would be so intimate but it sort of makes sense. They spend most hours of the day practically joined at the hip; dressing in the same costumes, sharing packs of cigarettes, watching each other’s scenes.

Rick loves it, loves that somehow, someway, Cliff gets him. Cliff’s always there to calm Rick down when he’s babbling in his trailer about how awful he is and how everyone should hate him. He listens, he hears about the lowest lows and then steadily brings Rick back up to normal. And when Rick’s flying, nailing every take and every line Cliff’s there to celebrate and steadily bring him down so he doesn’t do anything too manic like trying to walk on water or heal the blind. 

He’s part stuntman, part shrink.

Rick knows he’s a lot to deal with so he does whatever he can to make sure Cliff is happy. He keeps Cliff’s brand of cigarettes in his trailer and his favorite beer in the fridge. When the network orders another season of  _ Bounty Law _ Rick makes sure Cliff gets a raise. Every party Rick goes to Cliff is his plus one. It never feels like enough but Cliff never makes him feel guilty about it. 

“C’mon, buddy,” Cliff says, hauling Rick’s drunk ass out of the car, “let’s get you inside.”

Cliff kind of likes taking care of Rick, even when he’s wasted like this. Rick carries all this naivety and vulnerability in his eyes which makes him easy to read. When he’s happy his eyes  _ glow _ , ethereal and hypnotic. Even more so when he’s inebriated, looking up at Cliff like he’s anything worth looking at.

Taking care of Rick makes Cliff feel useful, like his hands were made for more than just killing. Like maybe they were made for helping.

“M’a mess, Cl-cliff,” Rick murmurs, his head lolling closer to Cliff’s neck. He can feel Rick’s hot, whiskey laden breaths on his skin.

Cliff chuckles, “Who the hell isn’t? Where’s your keys?”

“Hmm?”

Fuck it. Cliff reaches into the front pocket of Rick’s trousers as they stand under the porch light outside of Rick’s house. No keys to be found on his left side so Cliff takes to rooting around in the right pocket.

“You sure are comfortable with having a man stick his hand in your pants-”

“Hey,” and, shit, that’s Rick’s angry voice, “Fuck y-you. I ain’t no  _ fuckin _ ’ homo, alright? Goddamn.” He scolds, stumbling out of Cliff’s arms.

Cliff holds his hands up, “Wasn’t calling you one, Rick. I was just teasin’.”

Rick’s face stays angry and pinched for a moment but it all falls apart when he starts laughing, suddenly, like Cliff said the funniest thing. “Well fuck you and y-your teasing,” Rick  _ giggles _ , which means he’s well past drunk and bound to collapse at any second.

Cliff watches, with his arms crossed, as Rick digs the keys out of his jacket pocket and drops them a few times before finally whining, “Cliff.”

With only a slight eye roll Cliff picks them up and unlocks the door, “I got it, boss, I got it.”

And, maddeningly like the past three minutes never happened, Rick leans on Cliff once again as they trudge into the house.

It’s not exactly like Rick is in the habit of seeing Cliff without his pants. They’re comfortable around each other but not  _ that _ comfortable. And it doesn’t matter that he’s stupidly in love with Cliff and everything he does, Rick’s not going to do something dumb like ogle the only good person in his life.

But then costuming makes a mistake one day.

“You in there, pal?” Cliff asks, knocking on the trailer door.

Rick hollers, “Yeah, c’mon in, buddy.”

Because that’s how everything is between them;  _ pal _ this and  _ buddy _ that.

Cliff comes in, his gait just a touch off but Rick smokes a cigarette and tries not to notice it. “I think they mislabeled our clothes or some shit. Your pants feel baggy to you? Cause mine are about to cut off circulation.”

Rick laughs, “Fuck, I thought it w-was me or somethin’. God. Been t-tightening my belt all day.”

And then Cliff starts unbuttoning his pants and Rick turns around like he’s a fair maiden who’s never seen such things. “C’mon, swap me. Can’t ride a horse for  _ shit _ like this.”

Rick tells himself he’s not going to turn around, he does. It’s just that his body doesn’t listen. By the time Rick sees it he’s halfway out of his pants and almost trips.

“You have a s-s-soulmark?” Rick says, voice tight and needy. His eyes sting but he can’t cry about this, not in front of Cliff, at least.

“What?” Cliff tilts his head and then looks down, “Oh, oh yeah. I don’t think about it much, honestly.”

And Rick could scream because he thinks about it all the time, no matter how hard he tries not to. He kisses girls he meets in bars with his eyes squeezed tight and wonders what it would be like to be with Cliff instead. And he feels dirty and he feels wrong and it turns out that all this time  _ his words _ were printed on Cliff’s hip.

“What about you?” Cliff asks, kicking the too tight pants off. “Got a mark?”

Rick finishes undressing while staring down at the carpet, “Nah. Not really.”

Cliff smiles like he’s trying to cheer Rick up, “Well count yourself lucky. Met my wife because of mine.”

Rick just huffs because that’s like salt in the wound.

Cliff never really put much stake in his soulmark, but any residual belief he had vanished the same day his wife did.

He wasn’t a good husband, he knows that. He stayed out too late and swore too much and never talked about his feelings. Never opened up about what the war was like or where any of his many scars came from. And he never asked Natalie anything, really, other than  _ what’s for dinner _ and  _ did you feed Brandy? _

And she wasn’t a good wife. Always talking down to him like he was nothing more than the dirt under her feet. Like she didn’t know that marrying someone on a whim was a bad idea. She resented him for not being the fairytale that every little girl is promised.

Then they took a trip and she disappeared and Cliff felt nothing. That’s why he’s pretty sure these god forsaken marks mean jack shit.

“Still think you’re too pretty to be a stuntman,” Rick mumbles as he applies ice to Cliff’s face. Someone had missed their mark and  _ actually _ punched Cliff, giving him a black eye. If Rick hadn’t been so preoccupied with dragging Cliff back to the trailer to take care of him then he would have torn that guy a new one. Then fired him.

Still might, actually.

Cliff’s eye, the one that isn’t swollen and currently covered with an ice pack, flits open “What?”

Rick blushes and stammers, “Sh-shit Cliff, don’t act like it’s the first time y-you’ve ever heard that. Every girl in this fuckin’ town tells you that you have a -- a leading man’s face.”

He does. Even with the newly acquired scars and bruises.

Cliff stares up at him. Not in disgust, which is a good sign because Rick’s pretty sure Cliff could kill him without breaking a sweat, but just...different. Like Rick’s face was blurry and just now came into focus.

He keeps staring at him like that as Rick fusses over him. “You think I’m pretty?”

Rick’s face finds deeper and deeper shades of red with every minute, “I said you’re t-too pretty to be a goddamn stuntman. I -- I did  _ not _ say  _ I _ think you’re pretty. There’s a fuckin’-- stop smiling at me like that, Jesus!”

Cliff has the audacity to laugh, “Don’t worry, pal,” He pats Rick’s leg and Rick thinks he’d actually prefer to die now, “I think you’re pretty, too.”

“Goddamnit, hold your o-o-own ice pack. I’m getting a drink.”

In a spectacular turn of events, Cliff is the one getting black out drunk and Rick is the one - despite being drunk himself - hauling his ass home.

“She disappears in fuckin’  _ Mexico _ , makin’ me think she’s  _ dead _ . Only to serve me with fuck-” Cliff hiccups, actually hiccups, “fucking  _ divorce _ papers. Two years later. Cunt.”

Rick’s trying to spot the actual lines of the road but his eyes are seeing double. He figures that means he should shoot for the middle. He knows he shouldn’t be driving but the idea of falling into a taxi with Cliff, when both of them are three sheets to the wind, sounds worse. You never know what’s going to come out of their mouths.

“All that soulmark shit is fake, pal,” Cliff continues. At this point it’s pretty likely that he’s setting a record for the most words he’s ever spoken in an evening. He’s really good at keeping to himself. Rick knew, via rumors, about Natalie and the boat, but he never believed it. If anyone asked him he would swear up and down that Cliff would never kill his wife.

Cliff leans his face against the window and says, “Ain’t no way some words on your skin are gonna know who you ought to be with.”

Rick nods, pathetically, and figures that’s true enough.

“Ah, fuck,” Rick mumbles, neck feeling stiff and his head splitting. He can hear birds chirping distantly and for a minute he wishes he could shoot them all. But he refuses to open his eyes or unburry his head from his pillow and he doesn’t own a gun, so, “Goddamn.”

“Some of us are trying to sleep, Dalton.”

Rick freezes. That’s Cliff’s voice, coming from the other side of the mattress. Rick forgets how to breathe as Cliff shifts around, getting comfortable again. Rick turns his head slightly, opens an eye and they’re face to face. Certainly closer than they’ve ever been.

And they’re both clothed, which is good, but a little less exciting.

Cliff’s eyes blink open, hazy and exhausted but not scared or confused. Like it’s normal for them to be sharing a bed. “Go back to sleep, Rick.”

They pull the comforter up to block out anything like  _ light _ or  _ reality _ and both fall back to sleep.

Cliff’s the first to really wake up, no surprise there. It feels right when he opens his eyes and finds Rick just a few inches away from him. His face slack and lips plump as he rested. It’s kind of nice to see him like this, free of his usual anxiety - no worried brow or big, sad eyes. He looked perfect, actually.

Cliff stares at Rick for a long while, at his flushed cheeks and red lips and wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

His eyes widen at the thought as his heart hammers loudly enough to wake the dead. Cliff’s not one to judge - he’s done too many ill deeds, he figures it’s a little hypocritical to go around condemning people for living their lives. But still, he’s  _ never _ felt this way about a man before.

And it’s not just  _ a man _ , some nameless stranger on the street or in a bar. It’s Rick Dalton. His boss, his  _ friend _ . Maybe the only friend he has left in this town.

Maybe the only friend he has ever had.

Shit.

When they return to set the following Monday things are  _ weird _ and everyone knows it. It’d be easier if they were fighting or something. Not that Cliff and Rick have  _ ever _ fought, but at least the crew would be able to figure out that they should keep their heads down and not aggravate things.

No. Instead every time they step onto the sound stage or the back lot the air is filled with a thick static as they avoid eye contact. Usually they’re inseparable; with Rick bumming lights off of Cliff and Cliff doing his best to calm Rick. Today, they keep a minimum of four feet between them and it throws everyone off their game.

“Cut! Jesus,” The director mutters as Rick continues to flub his lines, “Alright, how about we all take  _ fifteen _ and come back with our heads on straight.”

Rick flinches at the words. They all know he has a stutter, it’s not something he tries to hide, but he hates it when it gets the better of him. He hates it when all eyes are on him in the  _ bad way _ , judging and pitying. Rick keeps his eyes down as he hurries to his trailer to weigh the pros and cons of killing himself.

When he sees Cliff chain smoking outside of his trailer he jumps like he’s seen a ghost.

Cliff just nods at him, “Hey.”

It’s not like Cliff’s the most talkative guy in the world but there’s still that palpable  _ something’s different _ lingering between them. It’s made even more obvious when Rick stands still like a deer in the headlights.

“H-hey,” Rick says and mentally berates himself for not even being able to say that right.

Rick continues up the steps to his trailer only to feel and hear Cliff hurrying up behind him. Neither of them say anything as Rick opens the door and they both rush in, like they can escape the strange day and hide in the trailer forever.

Rick’s body takes him to the bar cart before he can even think about it. He holds up two glasses, mostly to be polite, and throws Cliff a questioning look. Rick’s expecting Cliff to shake his head or wave his hand but instead he nods. Cliff never drinks on set, so Rick figures this must be it; he’s going to have his drink and quit and Rick’s going to have to live the rest of his life not knowing what could have been.

Rick pours them each a shot of bourbon and then gives himself an extra because he’s pretty sure he’s going to need it. His hands shake as he delivers the glass to Cliff. They cheers silently before each downing their drinks.

“I apologize if I overstepped any boundaries the other night,” Cliff says, taking the burden of starting this conversation. Of course he would, that’s just who Cliff is.

Rick bites his lip, wondering what the hell he can say to that when all he wants to say is that he liked sharing a bed. And that he likes Cliff.

Cliff continues, “I understand if you’d want a different stuntman-”

“What? No, fuck. No,” Rick says adamantly, “Cliff I -- it’s not a big deal.”

Cliff raises his eyebrows, “You’re sure? Because I’d hate to make you uncomfortable.”

“Jesus, we sh-shared a bed, Cliff, it’s not like we--”  _ had sex _ , his mind shouts, unhelpfully, “I’m not uncomfortable.” And that’s when Rick decides he needs more bourbon and returns to the bar cart.

“Really?” Cliff asks and Rick fixes another drink

“Really,” Rick nods and then worries, “Are you un-uncomfortable?”

As Rick turns around he jumps, because Cliff is there, standing just a few inches away and it’s the closest they’ve been to each other all day. And, of course, Rick manages to spill on his shirt - fuck, doesn’t that just make him look even more like an alcoholic.

“Ah, shit,” Rick mutters, grabbing a towel from the bar cart and dabbing himself off with it to no avail.

“Didn’t mean to spook you,” Cliff says, taking a half step back, “And run the shirt under cold water, the stain should come out.”

Rick shoots back the rest of his drink first because he might as well at this point. He peels his shirt off as he walks over to the sink.

“Rick Dalton, is that a tattoo?” Cliff asks, teasingly, and Rick feels like he might actually throw up. Rick’s always been so careful to change in private or wear an undershirt but today, of all days, all that precaution flies out the window. “And here I was thinking you were just one of those sweet, midwestern boys.”

Rick’s mind blanks as cold water runs in the sink. He plops the shirt in, watching the fabric darken and the stain start to fade. “Y-yeah. It is.” 

And he can feel his face heating up and he knows the color is only spread to his ears and down his neck. And he feels the burn of those four words that he hasn’t seen in nearly twenty years. And he wonders why it has to be this way.

“Oh, shit, buddy, I didn’t mean to pry,” Cliff says, pulling him away from the sink and into his arms. It’s only then, as Cliff holds him together, that he realizes he’s started sobbing.

“I-I had a soulmark, too,” Rick confesses against Cliff’s shoulder, “M’folks got it covered when I -- I was just a--” And then he’s crying harder and everything  _ hurts. _

Cliff guides him to the couch but doesn’t release him, just pulls him down, right onto his lap. He rubs Rick’s back and hushes him by saying, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Rick can’t take it anymore, all this comforting he doesn’t deserve. Cliff would regret every hug, every look, every kind word, if he knew the truth. Rick pulls back so he can look Cliff in the eyes as he says, “They’re your words, Cliff.”

Cliff stares as Rick taps on the black bar above his heart. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ s-sorr-”

Cliff kisses him and it’s like the first rain after a fire. It soothes every pain either of them have ever had. Cliff holds him close as he kisses like he’s trying to apologize for every shitty thing that has ever happened. Soft lips and tears and needy hands grabbing at each other.

Cliff’s tongue tastes like bourbon and cigarettes and, best of all,  _ Cliff _ . Even as they start to pull away Rick can’t help but kiss him again, chastely, like it might be his first and last chance at something like this.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Cliff asks, wiping away Rick’s tears.

Rick just stares at Cliff, “You know why.”

“I’m no bigot.” Cliff says, still holding Rick’s face tenderly.

“The whole world’s a bigot,” Rick says, remembering years and years of shame and hatred. “Doesn’t m-matter. I thought you and Natalie were, y’know…” He trails off, delicately.

Cliff huffs, barely a laugh, “God, doesn’t that all make sense now.” Cliff looks at the tattoo again and almost feels guilty for what he’s about to ask because what kind of asshole doesn’t remember? 

“What’s it say?”

Rick smiles, a little fond and a little sad, “ _ Guess I’m your man _ .”

Cliff’s taken punches that hurt less. His jaw clenches, “Goddamn. This could’ve...I could’ve...”  _ killed you _ realizes, but can’t bring himself to say, “Jesus, I started ruinin’ your life as soon as you were born.”

Rick kisses him, again and again trying to rid him of that thought. “Cliff, you might be the b-best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And Cliff’s always been better at actions over words, so he kisses Rick as many times as he can before they both have to get back to set.

**Author's Note:**

> No one:  
Literally Nobody at all:   
Me: Should I write a soulmates AU that focuses on how terrible it would be to be outed by something you literally can't control?
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated!!


End file.
